LEGENDS: Fifteen Tales of Sword and Sorcery

by Colt, K. J.

  With each poke of his staff, Merk remembered each of his victims. He had killed the King’s worst foes—not by poison—for that, they brought in the petty assassins, the apothecaries, the seductresses. The worst ones they often wanted killed with a statement, and for that, they needed him. Something gruesome, something public: a dagger in the eye; a body left strewn in a public square, dangling from a window, for all to see the next sunrise, for all to be left in wonder as to who had dared oppose the King.

  When the old King Tarnis had surrendered the kingdom, had opened the gates for Pandesia, Merk had felt deflated, purposeless for the first time in his life. Without a King to serve he had felt adrift. Something long brewing within him had surfaced, and for some reason he did not understand, he began to wonder about life. All his life he had been obsessed with death, with killing, with taking life away. It had become easy—too easy. But now, something within him was changing; it was as if he could hardly feel the stable ground beneath his feet. He had always known, firsthand, how fragile life was, how easily it could be taken away, but now he started to wonder about preserving it. Life was so fragile, was preserving it not a greater challenge than taking it?

  And despite himself, he started to wonder: what was this thing he was stripping away from others?

  Merk did not know what had started all this self-reflection, but it made him deeply uncomfortable. Something had surfaced within him, a great nausea, and he had become sick of killing—he had developed as great a distaste for it as he had once enjoyed it. He wished there was one thing he could point to that triggered all of this— the killing of a particular person, perhaps—but there was not. It had just crept up on him, without cause. And that was most disturbing of all.

  Unlike other mercenaries, Merk had only taken on causes he believed in. It was only later in life, when he had become too good at what he did, when the payments had become too large, the people who requested him too important, that he had begun to blur the lines, to accept payment for killing those who weren’t necessarily at fault—not necessarily at all. And that was what was bothering him.

  Merk developed an equally strong passion for undoing all that he had done, for proving to others that he could change. He wanted to wipe out his past, to take back all that he had done, to make penitence. He had taken a solemn vow within himself never to kill again; never to lift a finger against anyone; to spend the rest of his days asking God for forgiveness; to devote himself to helping others; to become a better person. And it was all of this that had led him to this forest path he walked right now with each click of his staff.

  Merk saw the forest trail rise up ahead then dip, aglow with white leaves, and he checked the horizon again for the Tower of Ur. There was still no sign of it. He knew eventually this path must lead him there, this pilgrimage that had been calling to him for months now. He had been captivated, ever since he was a boy, by tales of the Watchers, the secretive order of monks/knights, part men and part something else, whose job was to reside in the two towers—the Tower of Ur in the northwest and the Tower of Kos in the southeast—and to watch over the Kingdom’s most precious relic: the Sword of Fire. It was the Sword of Fire, legend had it, that kept The Flames alive. No one knew for sure which tower it was in, a closely kept secret known by none but the most ancient Watchers. If it were ever to be moved, or stolen, The Flames would be lost forever—and Escalon would be vulnerable to attack.

  It was said that watching over the towers was a high calling, a sacred duty and honorable duty—if the Watchers accepted you. Merk had always dreamed of the Watchers as a boy, had gone to bed at night wondering what it would be like to join their ranks. He wanted to lose himself in solitude, in service, in self-reflection, and he knew there was no better way than to become a Watcher. Merk felt ready. He had discarded his chain mail for leather, his sword for a staff, and for the first time in his life, he had gone a solid moon without killing or hurting a soul. He was starting to feel good.

  As Merk crested a small hill, he looked out, hopeful, as he had been for days, that this peak might reveal the Tower of Ur somewhere on the horizon. But there was nothing to be found—nothing but more woods, reaching as far as the eye could see. Yet he knew he was getting close—after so many days of hiking, the tower could not be that far off.

  Merk continued down the slope of the path, the wood growing thicker, until, at the bottom, he came to a huge, felled tree blocking the path. He stopped and looked at it, admiring its size, debating how to get around it.

  “I’d say that’s about far enough,” came a sinister voice.

  Merk recognized the dark intention in the voice immediately, something he had become expert in, and he did not even need to turn to know what was coming next. He heard leaves crunching all around him, and out of the wood there emerged faces to match the voice: cutthroats, each more desperate looking than the next. They were the faces of men who killed for no reason. The faces of common thieves and killers who preyed on the weak with random, senseless violence. In Merk’s eyes, they were the lowest of the low.

  Merk saw he was surrounded and knew he had walked into a trap. He glanced around quickly without letting them know it, his old instincts kicking in, and he counted eight of them. They all held daggers, all dressed in rags, with dirty faces, hands, and fingernails, all unshaven, all with a desperate look that showed they hadn’t eaten in too many days. And that they were bored.

  Merk tensed as the lead thief got closer, but not because he feared him; Merk could kill him—could kill them all—without blinking an eye, if he chose. What made him tense was the possibility of being forced into violence. He was determined to keep his vow, whatever the cost.

  “And what do we have here?” one of them asked, coming close, circling Merk.

  “Looks like a monk,” said another, his voice mocking. “But those boots don’t match.”

  “Maybe he’s a monk who thinks he’s a soldier,” one laughed.

  They all broke into laughter, and one of them, an oaf of a man in his forties with a missing front tooth, leaned in with his bad breath and poked Merk in the shoulder. The old Merk would have killed any man who had come half as close.

  But the new Merk was determined to be a better man, to rise above violence—even if it seemed to seek him out. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm.

  Do not resort to violence, he told himself again and again.

  “What’s this monk doing?” one of them asked. “Praying?”

  They all burst into laughter again.

  “Your god won’t save you now, boy!” another exclaimed.

  Merk opened his eyes and stared back at the cretin.

  “I do not wish to harm you,” he said calmly.

  Laughter rose up, louder than before, and Merk realized that staying calm, not reacting with violence, was the hardest thing he had ever done.

  “Lucky for us, then!” one replied.

  They laughed again, then all fell silent as their leader stepped forward and got in Merk’s face.

  “But perhaps,” he said, his voice serious, so close that Merk could smell his bad breath, “we wish to harm you.”

  A man came up behind Merk, wrapped a thick arm around his throat, and began squeezing. Merk gasped as he felt himself being choked, the grip tight enough to put him in pain but not to cut off all air. His immediate reflex was to reach back and kill the man. It would be easy; he knew the perfect pressure point in the forearm to make him release his grip. But he forced himself not to.

  Let them pass, he told himself. The road to humility must begin somewhere.

  Merk faced their leader.

  “Take of mine what you wish,” Merk said, gasping. “Take it and be on your way.”

  “And what if we take it and stay right here?” the leader replied.

  “No one’s asking you what we can and can’t take, boy,” another said.

  One of them stepped up and ransacked Merk’s waist, rummaging greedy hands through hi
s few personal belongings left in the world. Merk forced himself to stay calm as the hands rifled through everything he owned. Finally, they extracted his well-worn silver dagger, his favorite weapon, and still Merk, as painful as it was, did not react.

  Let it go, he told himself.

  “What’s this?” one asked. “A dagger?”

  He glared at Merk.

  “What’s a fancy monk like you carrying a dagger?” one asked.

  “What are you doing, boy, carving trees?” another asked.

  They all laughed, and Merk gritted his teeth, wondering how much more he could take.

  The man who took the dagger stopped, looked down at Merk’s wrist, and yanked back his sleeve. Merk braced himself, realizing they’d found it.

  “What’s this?” the thief asked, grabbing his wrist and holding it up, examining it.

  “It looks like a fox,” one said.

  “What’s a monk doing with a tattoo of a fox?” another asked.

  Another stepped forward, a tall, thin man with red hair, and grabbed his wrist and examined it closely. He let it go and looked up at Merk with cautious eyes.

  “That’s no fox, you idiot,” he said to his men. “It’s a wolf. It’s the mark of a King’s man—a mercenary.”

  Merk felt his face flush as he realized they were staring at his tattoo. He did not want to be discovered.

  The thieves all remained silent, staring at it, and for the first time, Merk sensed hesitation in their faces.

  “That’s the order of the killers,” one said, then looked at him. “How did you get that mark, boy?”

  “Probably gave it to himself,” one answered. “Makes the road safer.”

  The leader nodded to his man, who released his grip on Merk’s throat, and Merk breathed deep, relieved. But the leader then reached up and held a knife to Merk’s throat and Merk wondered if he would die here, today, in this place. He wondered if it would be punishment for all the killing he had done. He wondered if he was ready to die.

  “Answer him,” their leader growled. “You give that to yourself, boy? They say you need to kill a hundred men to get that mark.”

  Merk breathed, and in the long silence that followed, debated what to say. Finally, he sighed.

  “A thousand,” he said.

  The leader blinked back, confused.

  “What?” he asked.

  “A thousand men,” Merk explained. “That’s what gets you that tattoo. And it was given to me by King Tarnis himself.”

  They all stared back, shocked, and a long silence fell over the wood, so quiet that Merk could hear the insects chirping. He wondered what would happen next.

  One of them broke into hysterical laughter—and all the others followed. They laughed and guffawed as Merk stood there, clearly thinking it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

  “That’s a good one, boy,” one said. “You’re as good a liar as you are a monk.”

  The leader pushed the dagger against his throat, hard enough to begin to draw blood.

  “I said, answer me,” the leader repeated. “A real answer. You want to die right now, boy?”

  Merk stood there, feeling the pain, and he thought about the question—he truly thought about it. Did he want to die? It was a good question, and an even deeper question than the thief supposed. As he thought about it, really thought about, he realized that a part of him did want to die. He was tired of life, bone tired.

  But as he dwelled on it, Merk ultimately realized he was not ready to die. Not now. Not today. Not when he was ready to start anew. Not when he was just beginning to enjoy life. He wanted a chance to change. He wanted a chance to serve in the Tower. To become a Watcher.

  “No, actually I don’t,” Merk replied.

  He finally looked his captor right in the eye, a resolve growing within him.

  “And because of that,” he continued, “I’m going to give you one chance to release me, before I kill you all.”

  They all looked at him in silent shock, before the leader scowled and began to break into action.

  Merk felt the blade begin to slice his throat, and something within him took over. It was the professional part of him, the one he had trained his entire life, the part of him that could take no more. It meant breaking his vow—but he no longer cared.

  The old Merk came rushing back so fast, it was as if it had never left—and in the blink of an eye, he found himself back in killer mode.

  Merk focused and saw all of his opponents’ movements, every twitch, every pressure point, every vulnerability. The desire to kill them overwhelmed him, like an old friend, and Merk allowed it to take over.

  In one lightning-fast motion, Merk grabbed the leader’s wrist, dug his finger into a pressure point, snapped it back until it cracked, then snatched the dagger as it fell and in one quick move, sliced the man’s throat from ear to ear.

  Their leader stared back at him with an astonished look before slumping down to the ground, dead.

  Merk turned and faced the others, and they all stared back, stunned, mouths agape.

  Now it was Merk’s turn to smile, as he looked back at all of them, relishing what was about to happen next.

  “Sometimes, boys,” he said, “you just pick the wrong man to mess with.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  KYRA STOOD IN THE CENTER of the crowded bridge, feeling all eyes on her, all awaiting her decision for the fate of the boar. Her cheeks flushed; she did not like to be the center of attention. She loved her father for acknowledging her, though, and she felt a great sense of pride, especially for his putting the decision in her hands.

  Yet at the same time, she also felt a great responsibility. She knew that whatever choice she made would decide the fate of her people. As much as she loathed the Pandesians, she did not want the responsibility of throwing her people into a war they could not win. Yet she also did not want to back down, to embolden the Lord’s Men, to disgrace her people, make them seem weak, especially after Anvin and the others had so courageously made a stand.

  Her father, she realized, was wise: by putting the decision in her hands, he made it seemed as if the decision was theirs, not the Lord’s Men, and that act alone had saved his people face. She also realized he had put the decision in her hands for a reason: he must have knew this situation required an outside voice to help all parties save face—and he chose her because she was convenient, and because he knew her not to be rash, to be a voice of moderation. The more she pondered it, the more she realized that was why he chose her: not to incite a war—he could have chosen Anvin for that—but to get his people out of one.

  She came to a decision.

  “The beast is cursed,” she said dismissively. “It nearly killed my brothers. It came from the Wood of Thorns and was killed on the eve of Winter Moon, a day we are forbidden to hunt. It was a mistake to bring it through our gates—it should have been left to rot in the wild, where it belongs.”

  She turned derisively to the Lord’s Men.

  “Bring it to your Lord Governor,” she said, smiling. “You do us a favor.”

  The Lord’s Men looked from her to the beast, and their expressions morphed; they now looked as if they had bitten into something rotten, as if they didn’t want it anymore.

  Kyra saw Anvin and the others looking at her approvingly, gratefully—and her father most of all. She had done it—she had allowed her people to save face, had spared them from a war—and had managed a jibe at Pandesia at the same time.

  Her brothers dropped the boar to the ground and it landed in the snow with a thud. They stepped back, humbled, their shoulders clearly aching.

  All eyes now fell to the Lord’s Men, who stood there, not knowing what to do. Clearly Kyra’s words had cut deep; they now looked at the beast now as if it were something foul dragged up from the bowels of the earth. Clearly, they no longer wanted it. And now that it was theirs, they seemed to have also lost the desire for it.

  Their commander, after a long, tense sile
nce, finally gestured to his men to pick up the beast, then turned, scowling, and marched away, clearly annoyed, as if knowing he had been outsmarted.

  The crowd dispersed, the tension gone, and there came a sense of relief. Many of her father’s men approached her approvingly, laying hands on her shoulder.

  “Well done,” Anvin said, looking at her with approval. “You shall make a good ruler someday.”

  The village folk went back to their ways, the hustle and bustle returning, the tension dissipated, and Kyra turned and searched for her father’s eyes. She found them looking back, he standing but a few feet away. In front of his men, he was always reserved when it came to her, and this time was no different—he wore an indifferent expression, but he nodded at her ever so slightly, a nod, she knew, of approval.

  Kyra looked over and saw Anvin and Vidar clutching their spears, and her heart quickened.

  “Can I join you?” she asked Anvin, knowing they were heading to the training grounds, as the rest of her father’s men.

  Anvin glanced nervously at her father, knowing he would disapprove.

  “Snow’s thickening,” Anvin finally replied, hesitant. “Night’s falling, too.”

  “That’s not stopping you,” Kyra countered.

  He grinned back.

  “No, it’s not,” he admitted.

  Anvin glanced at her father again, and she turned and saw him shake his head before turning and heading back inside.

  Anvin sighed.

  “They’re preparing a mighty feast,” he said. “You’d best go in.”

  Kyra could smell it herself, the air heavy with fine meats roasting, and she saw her brothers turn and head inside, along with dozens of villagers, all rushing to prepare for the festival.